


Accuracy

by Heavenward (PreludeInZ)



Series: Thunderbirds Prompts [33]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Introspection, absent father, aspen - Freeform, the family biathalon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt fic: John and Virgil - Accuracy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accuracy

Get the whole family together for Christmas, the cabin---the cabin is what they've always called it, but this does a disservice to the grand old hunting lodge in Northern Colorado---is all lights and pine and the scent of cinnamon. Scott's on leave and John's taken a break from training, Virgil and Gordon and Alan are between terms of various levels of school.

The snow's fresh and the trail's been marked out, and the race is on.

Gordon's disqualified from competition by the fact that he's faster than everyone else, and he's only racing against himself. He'd been out at five this morning, and had gotten back at six thirty, whooping and waking the whole household with the announcement that he'd beaten last year's time. Alan's too young---or, at least, Grandma had said "no guns" when the youngest had asked if he could go along. Skiing ten miles without getting to handle a rifle had sounded unappealing to Alan, so he's back at the cabin with hot chocolate, waiting for the winner.

John's already at the checkpoint by the time Virgil catches up, and there's a rifle propped against the fence at the end of the shooting range beyond him. They're skiing the course in opposite directions. Scott's got John's time beat, but John's the better shot, less impatient, waiting as he is for his heart rate to steady so he can shoot straight. Virgil's slower than John, but he'll nail every last target at the range, without needing to pause. So the eldest three are more or less in a dead heat for this year's title.

"Time?" John inquires, tugging a knit wool cap off his head and following it with a pair of iridescently glinting sunglasses, pushed up into his ginger hair. He tucks the former in the strap of the rifle-sling crossing his back. The sun glints bright off the snow and John sniffs in the cold, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm twenty-tw0 and a half minutes, one lap to go," he offers.

"Twenty-three forty," Virgil grunts and closes the distance between the trail and the range. He loosens the strap of his own rifle, then drops to his knees to shoot prone. "I don't think normal families have an annual biathlon," he comments, bracing the butt of the gun against his shoulder and lining up his first shot.

John laughs at this, the way John so rarely does. "I don't think normal families own eighteen hundred acres in Aspen, either," he points out, lifting his own scope to his eye and exhaling. He takes his first shot, pings off the center of the target, a twenty-two caliber bullet leaving a dent in the metal.

Virgil's shot echoes John's and there's a grunt. "Dad's not gonna be in until tomorrow."

"Dad's a busy man."

Virgil gets a second shot off before John manages his, a bullseye in his usual fashion. John's misses the mark. "I'd put money on it that he pushes it back another day still. That's a prediction I'd make."

"Christmas Eve, you mean." John's quiet for a moment, lowers his rifle to glance at his brother, still staring intently down the barrel at his next target. His voice puffs in the air, he's a little out of breath. John sighs, adds a cloud of his own breath to the cold winter air. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't take that bet."

Another gunshot, another bullseye. "He avoids us at the holidays."

"He avoids us at Christmas," John corrects, and makes his third shot. "And you know why."

"I don't see how it'll help to miss Mom without us. Helps if we all miss her together."

John takes his fourth and his fifth shots in short succession, a hit and a miss, he'd rushed to avoid having to comment. Virgil's put his gun down entirely. "You think it's a good idea that he'll sit in his office and drink alone rather than spend time with us?"

Another long sigh clouds the air and John shrugs, slings his rifle onto his back again. "You want him doing it here?" he asks, and it's firmly rhetorical. "I dunno, Virg. You've always gotten a better bead on these things than I have."

There's a grunt from Virgil, and two sharp retorts, two targets hit dead center. John's dug his ski poles into the soft white snow and gone striding off in the opposite direction, vanishing around a corner before Virgil's even gotten to his feet. It's a little hollow, the competition. It had always been something they'd done to impress their father, always his praise they were trying to earn.

He's not even going to be around to acknowledge that Virgil's the best shot out of the five of them. As he gathers up his own rifle, and hits the trail again, Virgil can't help but wonder what the point is.


End file.
